


we'll make it another night

by meregalaxiesandgods



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: AU where the first years all get an apartment together in college, Gen, I know this isn't canon but I also don't care, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Suga Daichi and Kuroo show up, TSUKISHIMA YOU HAVE FRIENDS LEARN TO ACCEPT IT, Team as Family, Ushijima is also there for like five seconds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meregalaxiesandgods/pseuds/meregalaxiesandgods
Summary: This was a stupid idea. It had always been a stupid idea, from the moment that Hinata had proposed it at one of the interminable team sleepovers back in Miyagi, to the moment that Kei had signed the lease. It was a stupid idea now, as Kei moved himself into the apartment he was soon to be sharing with two of the most irritating people on the planet, his boyfriend, and Yachi, who was actually an angel and didn’t deserve any of this.But—and this was the sticking point—Kei was brutally aware of the fact that he had no-one but himself to blame for his current situation. He’d gone along with the whole thing with only mild complaining.(Or: Tsukishima Kei shares an apartment with his teammates from Karasuno as a freshman in college. He doesn’t hate it.)
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou & Kageyama Tobio & Tsukishima Kei & Yachi Hitoka & Yamaguchi Tadashi, Hinata Shouyou & Tsukishima Kei, Kageyama Tobio & Tsukishima Kei, Tsukishima Kei & Yachi Hitoka, Tsukishima Kei/Yamaguchi Tadashi
Comments: 40
Kudos: 246





	we'll make it another night

Tsukishima Kei was not in the habit of regret. 

Regret, he felt, was largely a pointless emotion. It accomplished nothing useful, as emotion alone could not change the past, and often only succeeded in bogging a person down. Additionally, Kei generally made good decisions, which led to good consequences in the future, which eliminated the opportunity for regret entirely. 

Now, though, Kei found himself appreciating regret anew. He regretted his entire existence. He regretted being born. He regretted every single cursed step along the path that had led him to this particular outcome in life. 

In fact, the more he thought about it, the more Kei was inclined to name regret as his new favorite emotion, displacing spite or smugness or the sweet shiver of victory. He wasn’t given very long to contemplate this thought, however, because just as he was really starting to spiral into an existential crisis, Hinata rushed by him with a large box in his hands, loud and pushy and _distracting_.

Kei caught a glimpse of the label on the side of the box—“dishes”, in Kageyama’s nigh-indecipherable chicken scratch—and snagged him by the back of his hoodie as he rocketed past. 

“Slow down,” he snapped. “That’s fragile. You’re going to break them.”

“Not gonna break them,” Hinata huffed, twisting in Kei’s grasp. “Lemme go, I gotta beat Bakageyama up the stairs.” 

Sure enough, Kei could hear another pair of rapidly approaching footsteps echoing up from the apartment lobby. 

And to think that he had willingly put himself in this position, forced to bear witness to the freak duo’s particular brand of moronic competitiveness for the foreseeable future—

This time, the wave of regret that swamped Kei was so strong that not even Hinata’s triumphant shout as he wormed his way free of Kei’s clutching fingers could shake him out of it. Nor did the clamor of Kageyama sprinting past, face set in one of those serial-killer scowls.

This was a stupid idea. It had always been a stupid idea, from the moment that Hinata had proposed it at one of the interminable team sleepovers back in Miyagi, to the moment Kei had signed the lease. It was a stupid idea _now_ , as Kei moved himself into the apartment he was soon to be sharing with two of the most irritating people on the planet, his boyfriend, and Yachi, who was actually an angel and didn’t deserve any of this.

But—and this was the sticking point—Kei was brutally aware of the fact that he had no-one but himself to blame for his current situation. He’d gone along with the whole thing with only mild complaining. 

Thus, the regret. He should’ve complained harder, held out for a bigger apartment, or at least one that was closer to his own university rather than one smack-dab in the heart of Tokyo.

It was loud here, and smelly, and the apartment was small for five people—Kei had no idea how he was going to share a bathroom with his perpetually messy former teammates without actually murdering one of them in a fit of apocalyptic rage—and he was starting to contemplate walking out of the building and never coming back when Tadashi stuck his head around the stairwell. 

“Tsukki?”

“Hm?” Kei tried not to look like he’d just been on the verge of changing his legal name and moving to Antarctica.

Tadashi saw right through him, of course, like he always had, but seemed content to leave it with nothing but a fond headshake. “Can you come upstairs and help me for a moment? I’m trying to put the kitchen table together but I think I’m missing a piece.”

Kei followed his boyfriend up the six flights of stairs to the door labeled 7F: his tiny, dirty home, for the next four years. He opened the door and took in the mess of wood and metal occupying the majority of the kitchen floor. 

Tadashi at least had the sense to look vaguely ashamed when Kei stared at him. “You managed to Captain an entire team of unruly volleyball players for a year, but you can’t put a table together?”

Tadashi brandished the instruction manual at him like a sword. “Sorry, Tsukki. But it’s harder than it looks! You try it, and tell me how easy it is.”

“Gladly,” Kei said, sitting down with the manual. He was smart; he could do this. 

As Kei started to match the pieces on the floor to their counterparts in the manual, the door flew open again, admitting a very flushed Hinata. He charged over to the kitchen counter and slammed a box down with a worrying rattle. “Ha! That’s 10 to 9, Kageyama.”

“You cheated,” Kageyama grumbled, coming in the door right after him with another box. He was walking with a noticeable limp. “You stepped on my foot.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Hinata grinned.

“Oh, Shouyou! Is that the last of the silverware?” Yachi emerged from the living room, carrying an empty box that she carefully folded and set in the recycling bin.

“Yeah! Last of everything, actually.” 

Thank god for small mercies, Kei thought. Tadashi’s ancient Toyota Sienna had been starting to sag under the weight of five people’s assorted miscellany. Unsurprisingly, it had been Hinata who’d brought the most stuff. Kageyama, on the other hand, had shown up with a single suitcase and a volleyball. 

“Whatcha doing?” Hinata was abruptly much closer to Kei than he had been two seconds ago.

Kei leaned back. “Assembling furniture.” 

“Oooh, can I help?” He tugged the manual out of Kei’s hands. Kei grabbed it back. He didn’t trust Hinata within a two meter radius of a hammer.

“Why don’t you come help me instead,” Yachi suggested diplomatically, meeting Kei’s eyes over Hinata’s head and smiling. “I still have to unpack this silverware, and the dishes you brought up earlier.”

“Of course I’ll help you, Yacchan!” Hinata bounded to his feet and began to tear open the box on the kitchen counter. 

“I’ll start dinner,” Tadashi volunteered, stepping over to the oven and fiddling with the knob on the front. Gas flame flared and retreated. “I bought some groceries earlier, so we should be able to have a real meal.” 

“I’ll help,” Kageyama said. Kei raised an eyebrow—he’d known Tadashi could cook, but Kageyama having any useful skills outside of the volleyball court was somewhat of a surprise. Kageyama caught his doubtful expression and scowled back, which made Kei smirk. He really was too easy. 

Kei soon lost himself in putting the table together. It was soothing, somehow: the smoothness of the wood and metal under his fingertips, the satisfying way the disparate parts came together to make a whole. 

(There was a metaphor there, if Kei thought about it. He pointedly didn’t think about it.)

The table was done just as the dinner was, conveniently. Kei couldn’t help but be a little proud of his creation. It looked nice. It looked like something real adults would have in their kitchen. 

Kageyama dragged chairs over from the living room, and Yachi laid out the plates. Hinata grabbed the serving spoon, vibrating in his seat like a wind-up toy. Kei told him to calm down and slid five empty glasses onto the table. Then Tadashi came over with an enormous steaming pot of stir-fry, and Kei felt something swell in his chest. They’d done it. They’d moved in without any enormous complications, and were about to have their first real meal as roommates and soon-to-be college students.

Carefully, Tadashi set the pot in the center of the table.

The table promptly collapsed in a shower of splintering wood. 

Tadashi yelped, reflexively backing away from the mess of hot rice that flooded out of the pot as it tipped onto its side. He scrambled up onto the counter and perched there, pulling his feet away from the floor like a crab retreating into its shell. Hinata, with those irritatingly quick reflexes, grabbed for the glasses as the whole thing went down and somehow managed to catch three of them before they broke, one trapped awkwardly between the other two in his hands. Kageyama simply dove away from the table like a soldier dodging a grenade, snatching Yachi right out of her seat and holding her above the mess with his hands underneath her arms.

Too shocked to do anything, Kei sat stock still in his seat as an hour’s worth of work came tumbling down around him. He watched in mild fascination as a piece of broccoli ricocheted upwards and landed on his leg.

“Well,” he said. “That wasn’t in the instruction manual.” He picked up the piece of broccoli and squinted at it.

Tadashi was the first to crack, leaning back onto his hands with an expression of stunned disbelief. “What the fuck. Tsukki, what the _actual_ fuck.”

“I’m not responsible for shoddy workmanship,” Kei sniffed.

And then Hinata began to laugh, large great whoops of laughter, and that set Yachi off, and even Kageyama began to chuckle. Kei wanted to scowl, but found he couldn’t, his mouth twitching upwards into a helpless grin. Kageyama was still holding Yachi, and the force of his laughter was shaking her slightly, and for some reason Kei found this so absurdly funny that tears began to come out of his eyes, which just made Tadashi laugh even harder. And as soon as Kei thought he might be calming down a bit, he made the mistake of looking at Hinata. The other boy was laughing so hard he was turning red, which made Kei positively howl, and then he was doubled over in his seat and everything was a bit blurry because he was laughing so much he couldn’t breathe.

When the world finally regained its sharpness, Kei took a deep breath and sat up. Everyone else had calmed down enough to hold conversation (Kei was militantly avoiding Tadashi’s eyes, just _knowing_ that if they looked at each other it would set him off again.)

Hinata put the glasses he was holding down onto the counter next to Tadashi, staring mournfully at the ruined dinner. “But it looked so _good_ ,” he said. “Are you sure we can’t—“

“We’re not eating it off the floor,” Yachi said, waving her hands. “There’s glass in there! A-and pieces of broken plates. In fact, nobody move! If you step on it, it could cut your feet.”

Kageyama finally seemed to realize he was still holding her a quarter meter off the floor, and gently set her down.

Tadashi clambered off the countertop with a sigh. “I’ll go get the broom.”

In the end, they ate convenience store sushi with plastic chopsticks, sitting in a circle on the living room floor. It was messy, and Kei’s back hurt, and he was annoyed about the table, but somehow—

Yachi sat across from him, explaining the plot of a new show she was watching to Kageyama. He followed along raptly, eyes tracking her excited hand motions as he shoveled food into his mouth. Hinata was tossing pieces of sushi up into the air and trying to catch them on his tongue; Tadashi was trying to knock them off target with his chopstick.

Somehow, Kei couldn’t find it in himself to regret this at all.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

“No,” said Kei.

“Yes,” said Yachi.

“No,” Kei said again.

“Please,” said Yachi. She stared at him imploringly over the polaroid camera clutched in both hands.

“I don’t want to take a picture.”

“But it’ll be so cute, and when we’re old and dying we can look back on it as a memento!”

“That’s horrifying.”

“You’re taking the picture,” Tadashi said. He was using his Captain Voice, which meant that Kei was going to end up doing this whether he wanted to or not. Recognizing the futility of further protest, Kei let out a long sigh and allowed Yachi to shuffle him into position.

(Kei had thought that he’d escaped pictures on the first day of school when he’d moved out of his parents’ house and thus his mother’s reach. He now saw that he had been a fool.)

“Smile, Tobio,” Yachi said, and then shuddered. “Not like that. Wait, where’s—”

“I’m here,” Hinata yelled, bursting out of the bedroom he shared with Kageyama. “How do I look?” 

Hinata, Kei saw, was on his third outfit change of the morning. Now he was wearing an obnoxiously bright pink button down shirt, paired with tight black jeans.

“Very handsome,” Yachi cooed, clapping her hands together. Kageyama made a noise that might’ve been approval and might’ve just been his stomach rumbling with hunger. 

Hinata beamed and jockeyed his way in between Kei and Tadashi, elbowing Kei in the process. Kei glared at him, and elbowed back, igniting a shoving match that only ended because Tadashi collared Hinata with one hand and snatched Kei’s glasses off with the other, rendering him mostly blind and therefore unable to retaliate. 

“Can’t believe you took his side,” Kei muttered when Tadashi handed them back to him, along with a stern command to behave.

“I took my own side,” Tadashi said primly. “I’d rather not show up to my first day of class with bruises.”

This reminded them all that said classes did, in fact, start soon, and none of them wanted to be late on the very first day. Yachi hurried to set up the camera, propping it up on the back of the couch and setting the timer to count backwards from ten before coming around to join the rest of them against the wall. 

Four, flashed the camera screen. Three. Kei fought not to grimace.

“Wait,” Yachi shrieked. “Kei, you’re out of frame!” 

Kei did not want to have to crouch down to be in the picture like he was some sort of giant circus attraction. But neither did he want to have to retake the picture, as Yachi would surely insist on. So he sighed and ducked down. He also yanked Tadashi and Kageyama down with him for good measure. Hinata was already standing on his tiptoes. 

  
  


In the rush of his first day as a college student, Kei forgot all about the picture, at least until he saw Yachi fiddling with the camera again during dinner. He managed to get her alone afterwards, and quietly asked for a copy of the photo. She gave him the original instead, with a smile so gentle and understanding it made the tips of his ears burn. 

When Kei finally had a moment to himself to examine it (he was in his room with the door locked; Tadashi was in the shower) he found that it was quite a ridiculous picture after all. Not the sort of thing one’s mother posted on social media. 

Kageyama was slightly blurry, his hair in disarray. But—he was also smiling, and it wasn’t even the scary smile. Tadashi was looking straight at the camera with an expression of long sufferance, but Kei could see the amusement layered beneath. Hinata was smiling so wide his eyes were closed. Yachi looked one hard breath away from falling over, until Kei saw the way her arm was looped around Hinata’s waist. 

And Kei—Kei was right in the middle of the whole mess, looking hunched and slightly awkward, but—

He touched his fingers to his lips. He hadn’t realized he was grinning like that, genuine and toothy and embarrassingly sincere. 

Kei put the picture away in his dresser drawer. If he did that because it was in easy reach of the bed and he liked to look at it on bad days before he went to sleep, that was nobody’s business but his own. 

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

To some extent, Kei understood why Hinata had invited two of their old upperclassmen over for dinner. They lived in the same city, went to nearby universities, and Kei both (grudgingly) liked and respected Suga and Daichi. They were good players, good senpai. Good people.

What Kei did not understand was why Kuroo had to come along as well, and he expressed this opinion vociferously to Yachi five minutes before the trio were due to arrive.

“Well, he lives with them, doesn’t he?” Yachi turned to him with her hands planted on her hips. “Shouyou couldn’t have invited just them two. It would’ve been rude.”

Kei snorted. “Kuroo deserves people being rude to him every once in a while. It allows his head to fit through doorways.”

Yachi opened her mouth again, presumably to scold him, but the knock at the door interrupted her. Hinata, who’d been sitting on the rug waiting, yelped in excitement as he yanked the door open. “SUGA-SAN! DAICHI-SAN! KUROO-SAN! THANK YOU FOR COMING I MISSED YOU SO MUCH!”

“Here we go,” Kei muttered, just quiet enough that Yachi wouldn’t hear. 

Suga came in first, calling out a greeting and hauling Hinata into a tight hug. Daichi and Kuroo came through after him, carrying bags full of groceries that Yachi set on the kitchen counter. 

Then it was like highschool all over again—Suga chopping him in the side with more force than was polite before smothering him in a hug; Daichi ruffling his hair, asking him if he’d been eating enough. 

“I’m fine, Daichi-san,” Kei protested, trying vainly to comb his hair back into something resembling order. “Yes, I eat breakfast. You can ask Tadashi if you don’t believe me.”

Over Daichi’s shoulder, Kei could see that Suga had cornered Kageyama against their newly rebuilt kitchen table and was aggressively pinching his cheeks. Kageyama looked torn between storming off and demanding that Suga do it again.

“Good nutrition is very important,” Daichi said seriously, arms crossed over his chest. “Especially if you’re a student athlete.”

“What’s this?” Kuroo draped himself over Daichi’s shoulder, mouth curled into that infuriating smirk of his. “Glasses is playing university volleyball?”

Daichi shot him a half-amused, half-annoyed glare. “I literally told you that on the way over here.”

“Yes, but,” Kuroo spluttered. “I wanted to hear it from him!”

Kei sighed. Gods save him from morons with ridiculous hair. “Yes, I’m playing volleyball in university. So are Kageyama and Hinata, but they play for separate universities.” Kei was almost glad it had worked out like that—he and Tadashi at one school, Kageyama and Yachi at another, Hinata by himself at a third. That way, they weren’t in danger of overwhelming each other, either on the court or off it, and if anyone had to be alone, it was best that it was Hinata. He picked up friends like the rest of the world did loose change from the sidewalk.

Kuroo leaned closer, still hanging off Daichi’s shoulder. “Want some tips?”

“No,” said Kei, and fled to the kitchen to help Tadashi prepare the vegetables.

Over dinner, the conversation was light and easy. Kei even found himself smiling slightly when Hinata re-enacted a particularly impressive spike he’d made at his most recent game. The peace lasted until the upperclassmen were leaving, at which point Kuroo trapped him at the door under the false pretense of needing directions home.

Away from the others, Kuroo’s hair-raising smirk gentled into something soft and genuine. “Still playing, huh? I’m glad. You must’ve found your moment.” 

The reference to that long-ago training camp made something in Kei’s stomach flip over. Three years. Three years, and he was still the same person in so many ways; irrefutably different in so many others. 

“Yes,” said Kei, because he _had_ found his moment. He’d found his moment in the feeling of a volleyball in his hand, against his hand, the rush and satisfaction of blocking a spike. That singular, shining _moment_ where instinct met bone-numbing repetition, and Kei could see with perfect clarity where his opponent was aiming the ball—and then could rise to stop it.

But that wasn’t all volleyball had given him. He turned, just slightly, to look over Kuroo’s shoulder and into the hallway beyond. At the end of that hallway, there was a room, and people in the room. There was light, and laughter, and warmth, and a voice calling his name.

“It wasn’t anything special,” Kei said, but he meant, _thank you_.

“You still stand too close to the net sometimes,” said Kuroo, but Kei heard, _you’re welcome_.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

“All I’m saying,” Kei spat, “is that if you didn’t insist on treating everyone else like they were beneath you, maybe people would actually want to be around you for a change!”

There was, Kei thought, a vindictive pleasure to be found in destroying things. He felt it now as he watched Kageyama’s face crumple ever so slightly. They hadn’t had a fight like this in literal years, and he’d forgotten what it was like, how Kageyama had the ability to fray his last nerve until it snapped.

Kageyama’s shoulders hunched up around his ears, his brows set in a frown. He looked every inch the tyrant King Kei had once named him. “As if people actually want to be around _you_ , either.”

The comment hit harder than Kei liked and they both froze for a second, breathing hard, staring at each other. Beneath his indifferent facade, Kei felt the words take root and unfurl poisonous feelers along old, bitter insecurities. He knew it wasn’t fair of him to react so strongly—Kageyama was only flinging his own words back at him—but Kei didn’t quite care about being fair anymore. He straightened, emphasizing the height difference between them. “At least my teammates never turned their backs on me in the middle of a game.”

Kageyama went positively white, but the only thing Kei could think was, _good_.

“I’m leaving,” Kageyama managed, turning around jerkily. The apartment was empty except for the two of them, which meant none of the others had been around to witness the fight. Kei was glad for that; they would only have tried to intervene. 

“Do,” Kei said coolly. “We’re all much happier when you’re not here.”

The instant the words were out of his mouth, he knew he’d crossed a line. Not only was the statement untrue, it was horridly ruthless in a way Kei knew dug claws into Kageyama’s every fear and insecurity. But, gods, Kei was still so angry, and he’d never been the type to apologize, so he kept his mouth shut as Kageyama slammed his way out the front door.

Kei sighed, and sat down on the nearest convenient surface, which happened to be the stepstool Yachi used to access the higher shelves in the kitchen. (Hinata just climbed on top of the counter. Kei hated it, and had been known to go after him with the broom.)

His hands were shaking. He couldn’t even remember what the argument had been about—something stupid, like whose turn it was to do the dishes. A pointed comment on Kei’s part had met a defensive retort on Kageyama’s, and then suddenly they were having the sort of knock-down, drag-out verbal spar Kei had only ever had with Akiteru.

He put his head down into his knees. That last parting shot . . . it had taken Kageyama until their last year in highschool to move past the fear that Karasuno was going to kick him out of the volleyball club if he stopped being useful as a player. He hadn’t understood that the team wanted him around for _him_ , not just for his abilities. And Kei had probably just taken all that progress and flushed it down the drain.

Kei didn’t like to think of himself as a cruel person. He was impossibly cold at times, sure, and blunt, and often petty, but he didn’t take pleasure in other people’s pain. He incited and prodded and provoked, but only at people he knew could handle it. He’d never liked bullies.

_We’re all much happier when you’re not here._

Those had been a bully’s words. 

Kei removed his glasses and began to clean them with the edge of his shirt. He was pragmatic enough to realize there was nothing to be done about the whole mess right that moment, and they both probably needed time to cool off anyway. He’d simply wait until Kageyama returned, and they could each make their stilted apologies then.

Except, Kageyama didn’t return. 

An hour passed, and then two. A ‘where are you’ text met no reply. It was dark out now, and pouring rain to boot. Kei stood from his seat and paced restlessly around the living room. His stomach clenched when he spotted the sleek dark shape of Kageyama’s phone lying on the couch cushion.

So. Kageyama had taken off without his phone—and his wallet too, it turned out—into downtown Tokyo, at night, during a rainstorm.

It was exactly the sort of behavior that had regularly given Kei migraines as a third-year, when he, Tadashi, and Yachi had been the sole forces of reason and logic keeping the idiot duo in check. Kei felt the beginnings of another monstrous headache pressing at his temples. 

Kei could wait a little longer before panicking, he supposed. He could call Tadashi, and Tadashi would sort everything out. He could abdicate responsibility entirely.

But—the situation was kind of, sort of, his fault. He growled and grabbed his umbrella, cursing Kageyama and the rain and his own stupid sense of guilt on the way out. 

  
  


Finding one person in a city of 9.2 million was a fool’s errand. Kei realized this very quickly, stuck on a street corner he didn’t recognize and trying to fight his way through the nighttime crowd. He only had to hope that Kageyama hadn’t gone very far and Kei would be able to find him by executing a grid search that ringed their apartment in widening circles. Kei had already checked all the obvious places—the closest restaurants, the university gym, that hedgehog cafe Kageyama was obsessed with.

Now he was stuck wandering the streets, hoping that he’d quite literally run into the other man. Kei eyed the other pedestrians on the streets with rancor, wishing they’d quit running into _him._

A woman talking loudly on the phone brushed by him going the other direction, kicking up water onto his legs. He sidestepped to avoid her, nearly trampling over a man huddled sullenly under an overhang.

Kei stopped. He backtracked. He nudged the sitting Kageyama with a foot. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Kageyama grumbled, words muffled by the way his head was slumped across his knees. “Go away.”

“No,” said Kei, because he was a bastard like that, and also because Kageyama was wet and obviously miserable. He crowded in alongside Kageyama under the overhang, folding his umbrella in as he did so. They stayed like that, side pressed to side, until Kei felt Kageyama’s shivering begin to abate.

“Do you really think that?” Kageyama avoided his eyes as he asked the question, picking at the sleeve of his thin t-shirt. “Are you all really . . . happier when I’m . . .”

“No,” said Kei past the lump in his throat. “No, I was lying.”

“Oh.” 

He didn’t seem convinced. 

Kei grit his teeth and closed his eyes. He hated having to do this, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “It’s the opposite. We’re all happier when you’re there. I’m . . . happier when you’re there.”

“ _Oh_.”

They avoided looking at each other in mutual embarrassment. Kei cleared his throat. “We should head back.”

“Yeah,” Kageyama said. “Yeah.”

They stood and ducked out from underneath the overhang. Kei shifted so the umbrella covered them both, digging through his jacket pocket for his phone. He still wasn’t sure exactly where they were. 

Kei’s fingers encountered only air. He frowned. With increasing urgency, he searched his other pockets, cursing when he came up empty-handed. Only when he’d turned his jacket inside out did he admit it. He’d taken off without his phone—and his wallet too, it turned out—into downtown Tokyo, at night, during a rainstorm. The universe’s sense of dramatic irony was unparalleled.

“I don’t have my phone,” he told Kageyama.

Kagyema stared back at him. “I forgot mine, too.”

Kei sighed. “We’re a pair of morons.”

“You only just now figured that out?”

Despite the unfortunate situation, Kei smiled. Things were back to normal. “We’ll just have to walk around and hope we recognize something.”

They recognized nothing. 

The third time Kageyama said, “No, really, I think I know where we are,” they ended up in a dead-end next to a soapland, and Kei terminated his rights to give directions. 

(With Kei at the helm, they promptly ended up in a dead-end next to an image club, and Kei wished he could terminate _himself_.)

They were not-quite-arguing as they backtracked out of said dead-end, Kei snidely saying that Kageyama’s sense of direction must’ve gotten knocked out of his skull by taking one too many of Hinata’s serves to the back of the head.

Kageyama scowled, and swatted at him, but his heart wasn’t in it. “I think that car is following us.”

Kei turned slightly to look over one shoulder, and yes, he’d seen that blue compact two streets back. The compact slowed to a stop next to them, and Kei brandished his umbrella, unsure what the proper course of action was but certain to go down fighting.

The window rolled down. Kageyama tensed and put up his fists.

Kei wasn’t sure what he expected—a serial killer, maybe—but it certainly wasn’t Ushijima Wakatoshi staring back at him from the driver’s seat, face impassive in the glare of the streetlights. 

“Tsukishima,” said Ushijima. “Kageyama. Please get in.”

They got in. 

“You should be more careful,” Ushijima lectured, after pulling away from the curb. “You could have been assaulted. It is dark and raining.”

“Yes,” said Kei, because there really was no room to argue with him.

“Uh,” said Kageyama. “What are you . . . doing?” 

Ushijima took a left, hands placed on the wheel with textbook perfection. He drove like someone’s decrepit grandmother. “Taking you home.”

Kei exchanged a glance with Kageyama. “Were you out looking for us?”

“Yes.”

Kei waited, but there was no further explanation. “And, ah, why is that?”

“Sawamura called me, and informed me that the two of you were most likely lost somewhere in Tokyo. He asked if I would help look for you. As someone with a car, it was logical that I agree.”

“I see,” Kei said. He did not see at all. How had Daichi even gotten involved in the first place? 

“Oh no,” said Kageyama. He’d slouched down in his seat, bangs plastered to his forehead. He looked like a very wet, very distressed cat. “Yamaguchi must’ve called him. And if Daichi-san knows, then Suga-san knows, which means everyone in a 50 km radius of Tokyo knows, and is probably out looking for us right now.”

“Wonderful.”

They sat together in doomed silence. Kei tried not to picture his gruesome, imminent death at his boyfriend’s hands, wondering if Tadashi would bother with a weapon or just go in with his fists. Ushijima took a right, shifting Kageyama into Kei’s shoulder. 

“Thank you. For coming after me.”

The words were quiet, little more than a murmur. Kei gave a slight nod. “Anyone would’ve done it.”

“No. They wouldn’t have.”

“Well,” said Kei, “you can repay me by telling the others this was all your fault.” 

Kagyema snorted, but Kei saw the shadow of a smile on his face. “Even I’m not dumb enough to think that’s a fair trade.”

Ushijima pulled to a stop outside their apartment building, and Kei sighed. Time to face the music. They got out of the compact together, thanking Ushijima for the ride. He waved them off with a stern direction to be more careful in the future.

Kei shuffled his feet, staring up at the apartment. Tadashi was probably out of his mind with worry and wrath, not to mention the state of anxiety Hinata and Yachi had most likely worked themselves into. Suga was probably in there too, or maybe Daichi, or maybe even Kuroo.

Kageyama turned his head, and Kei felt the pressure of those eyes like a phantom touch. “. . . I’m telling them I had nothing to do with this,” he said, and took off.

Kei shouted, and (like he always, eventually, did) ran after him.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Kei woke to an elbow in the sternum.

“Get off,” he said, except it sounded more like “g’ruff,” because someone’s hair was in his mouth. He spit the orange strands out. “Hinata.”

Hinata was pretending to be asleep. Kei knew he was pretending because he’d started holding his breath the moment Kei had spoken.

“Shouyou.”

He was still, stubbornly, holding his breath. Kei stared at the ceiling. This was his just punishment, for making the mistake of falling asleep on the living room couch where anyone could take advantage of his vulnerable state and cuddle him.

“I know you’re awake.”

Hinata expelled his breath in one great burst and immediately sucked in another. “Okay, I’m awake. But I’m not moving!”

“Yes, you are,” said Kei, and began to sit up.

Hinata, lying facedown on Kei’s chest, shot out his hands and grabbed the arm of the couch behind Kei’s head, effectively trapping Kei between the couch and his own body. Kei grunted as his upward progress was suddenly and violently arrested. He struggled, but Hinata was freakishly strong and freakishly determined when he really wanted something, and apparently he _really wanted_ to stay where he was. On top of Kei.

Kei slumped backwards in resignation. “Don’t you have class? Practice? Something else to do?” _Other than bother me_ , went unsaid.

“Nope,” Hinata said cheerfully, wiggling a little bit as he got comfortable. “I’m cold, though, and you’re really, really warm.”

“Hm,” said Kei faintly. He closed his eyes again. The faster he fell back asleep, the faster this whole experience would be over.

Except—it wasn’t that bad, really. Hinata wasn’t heavy, but he was solid; grounding, almost. The repetitive motion of his breathing stopped being annoying and became . . . comforting.

Kei drifted. He didn’t even stir when the door opened, because it was almost certainly Yachi coming home from her ceramics class. Yachi, unlike Kageyama or Tadashi, would not mock Kei for his current situation. The worst she would do was take a picture, which Kei could appropriate later.

Sure enough, it was her light footsteps that proceeded from the foyer towards the living room; her bag with all its rattling keychains set down on the floor. 

Her quiet, muffled sniffles.

Kei jerked awake, opening his eyes. He must’ve made a noise, or moved, because Hinata woke too with a quiet grumble. “Gwuh?”

Yachi startled, and pulled her hands away from her face. “S-sorry! I thought you both were asleep.” 

“What’s wrong?” Hinata asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Did something happen?”

“No,” said Yachi. “Well, yes, I guess. I’ve just . . . everything went wrong today.” She sniffed again, eyes glassy. 

Wordlessly, Kei shifted so that Hinata was to his right side rather than directly on top of him, and extended his left arm. Yachi let out another small sob and hurried over, slotting under his chin with ease. Kei folded his left arm back in over her. She was small enough that his hand could rest on the upper curve of her shoulder. Hinata squirmed a bit, eventually settling with his back against the couch and his legs thrown over Yachi’s. 

“What are you going to do about it?” Kei asked. 

She sighed. “Try again tomorrow.”

Yachi had never stood on the court with the rest of them, never fought and bled and struggled for just one more point, but strength came in many forms. It wasn’t always about who could jump the highest or spike the hardest. Sometimes it was about picking oneself up after a bad day, and having the courage to face the world again in the morning.

Kei ran his fingers through Yachi’s hair, feeling her breathing even out. “Sleep,” he said, and they did.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

“This is unnecessary,” Kei rasped. “Bordering on ridiculous.”

Tadashi clicked his tongue. “Only you would complain about being taken care of.”

“I’m not complaining.”

Tadashi leveled him with an unimpressed glare. Kei glared back, but he suspected the efficacy was rather mitigated by his red eyes and runny nose. 

Tadashi tucked Kei’s sheets more firmly around him, curbing Kei’s restless squirming. Kei tried to elbow his way out of the swaddling, feeling rather like an unfortunate piece of fish stuck in a sushi roll, but Tadashi was relentless and much stronger than Kei in his current state of debilitation. 

“Stop that,” Tadashi said. “Don’t make me get Hinata. He’ll sit on you if he has to.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Sorry, Tsukki,” Tadashi said, not sounding very sorry at all. “I have to leave for class now, but Hinata’s in the living room if you really need him.” He pointed at Kei’s nightstand, upon which sat a glass of water, a bowl of soup, and a plate with two Tylenol on it. “Drink all that water, and at least try to eat. You can take more Tylenol in another four hours.”

“I’m not five,” Kei grumbled. “I can manage my own meals.”

“Bye, Tsukki,” said Tadashi, pointedly ignoring Kei’s protests. “Feel better soon. I love you.” He dropped a kiss on Kei’s forehead and left, dimming the lights behind him, and Kei shivered. He’d woken that morning feeling as though he’d gotten run over by a semi truck in his sleep, and it had only been downhill from there. He’d thrown up in the sink, nearly fallen asleep in the shower, and dropped his glasses on the bathroom floor. After the third time he’d stumbled while trying to get dressed, Tadashi had bundled him firmly back to bed, saying that Kei’s classes would survive without him for a day.

Kei had grumbled, of course, but his heart wasn’t in it. He felt—truly—awful, and didn’t have the energy to put up more than a token resistance. Even now, flat on his back and stuffed to the gills with water and pain meds, he felt like he’d just played five full matches back-to-back.

After what must’ve been hours of staring blankly up at the ceiling, Kei closed his eyes, fighting back another full-body shiver. Sure, he felt like shit now, but he’d just ride this out, and it’d all be better tomorrow—

Wait. 

Kei’s eyes snapped open. Tomorrow—there was something important about tomorrow?— his thoughts began to chase themselves around in his skull and he groaned, distressed. He was forgetting something, something important. He tried to lift his arms, fight his way out of the blankets, but it was like someone had tied an anchor to each of his wrists. Kei wheezed with effort, which devolved into a wracking cough that shook him for what seemed an eternity. When he finally regained his breath, gasping, there was someone else in the room with him, leaning over the bed. 

Kei shrunk away, squeezing his eyes shut. The light from the open door was stabbing him behind the eyes, poking at something that was never meant to be poked at. 

“Tsukishima?” A small finger prodded him in the cheek, and he flinched. The touch was _freezing_ , so cold it burned. 

“No,” Kei muttered. “Nonono. Don’t.“

The finger trailed up his cheekbone and the bridge of his nose, settling into a flattened palm over his forehead. “Oh,” said the mystery person, who Kei still couldn’t fucking identify, his eyes were so blurry. “You’re burning up. Shit. Okay, where’s the—"

A fumbling noise, and then his mouth was being pried open, invaded by a slim length of metal. Kei whined and tried to spit it out, but the hand on his head became a vise, clamping his jaw closed. 

“I’m sorry,” said the person, sounding panicked. “I’m so sorry, gods, Tsukishima. Just keep your mouth closed, please, please, I’m _sorry_.”

In the end, Kei was too weak to struggle, and the metal was only removed from his mouth after a beep that scraped his ears. “Shit, that’s way too high,” he heard, very quietly. For some reason, that made him even more disturbed than before. This person shouldn’t—shouldn’t be quiet. They were loud, and bright, and always talking. He flailed out one hand with a grunt, trying to communicate his displeasure. 

Another hand caught his, folding calloused fingers into Kei’s palm. “Alright,” he heard, shakily. “I’m going to call the ambulance now, okay? Tsukishima . . .Tsukishima, hey. _Kei_. No, don’t do that, keep your eyes open. Tadashi’s gonna kill the both of us if you die, I hope you know that. And you’ll make Hitoka sad, and you don’t wanna make Hitoka sad, right? And I’ll miss you too, even if you’re tall and kinda mean and block my spikes. Even Yamayama would cry, I think—”

On and on went the voice, soothing and high-pitched; Kei clung to it like a drowning man would to the last plank of wood in the ocean. His vision brightened, darkened, brightened again. And through it all, that small, strong hand never left his, burning his skin like a brand.

  
  


Kei opened his eyes to the sterile blankness of a hospital room. He was in a narrow bed, thin sheets catching roughly on his skin, and there was an intolerably sour taste in his mouth. He coughed weakly, scowling. The last thing he remembered was Tadashi closing the bedroom door behind him. 

“Careful, Kei.” 

Slowly, all-too-conscious of the ache at his temples, Kei turned his head to the left and met his brother’s smiling eyes above a facemask. Akiteru held a cup of water up to his mouth, clicking his tongue when Kei tried to evade him.

“I can do it myself.”

“Sure, Kei. Whatever you say.”

“I don’t need—"

Akiteru took advantage of his open mouth to pour a sip of water in; Kei glared, but swallowed. “What happened? Where am I?”

“Sanno Hospital,” Akiteru said. “You had a fever. A bad one.”

Kei coughed again, making a face as it scraped his throat. “How bad?”

“Bad enough.” Akiteru shrugged, but Kei could see the tension in his shoulders, under his eyes. “Kei . . . I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

He closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift. A hand brushed across the fringe of his hair, and Kei would never admit it, but it did make him feel just a bit better. “Hey, Aki, what time is it?” He doubtlessly had schoolwork to make up; he’d have to email his professors, his coach to explain his absence— 

Wait. 

Time. 

There was something about the time—was it tomorrow already? It had to be, the light streaming in through the small hospital window was strong and clear. Through fever haze, he just barely remembered being so upset about the time for some reason—

Kei jolted upright, or tried to. The IV taped into the inside of his elbow kept him from fully sitting up and he cursed even as it dug into the flesh of his forearm. “ _Nii-chan_ ,” he said desperately. “Akiteru, we have to go. We have to go _right now_. It’s morning which means it’s mine and Tadashi’s two year anniversary and he’s going to be so upset, he’s going to think I forgot and didn’t get him anything, he’s going to think I don’t care about him and don’t love him anymore—”

“Kei—Kei for fuck’s sake will you calm down—”

Akiteru leaned over him, pressing him back down into the bed by his shoulders, and Kei might’ve bulked up a bit in the past years but Akiteru had always been the stronger between them. “Calm down,” Akiteru said firmly. “And _look at him_.” He took Kei’s jaw in one broad hand and turned his head to the right. 

Kei looked. There, curled uncomfortably into a hospital chair, sound asleep with his mouth wide open, was Yamaguchi Tadashi. 

“He’s been here all night,” Akiteru said softly. “He was so scared. He’s not going to think you don’t love him anymore, Kei, don’t be ridiculous. All you would say while you were out of it was his name.”

Kei cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks begin to burn. That sounded . . . terribly embarrassing, if he was honest. Not at all the romantic gesture Akiteru clearly thought it was. But if it had given Tadashi even the smallest amount of comfort while Kei himself was indisposed, Kei supposed he could live with it.

“My gift,” he managed eventually, after a small eternity of watching Tadashi’s chest rise and fall. 

“Here.” Akiteru released his jaw and bent over to retrieve a small package from underneath his chair. 

Kei took it almost wonderingly. It was his gift for Tadashi, alright, the blue wrapping paper and the silver bow, the card taped to the bottom so nosy roommates (Hinata) wouldn’t open and read it. “How did you—"

Akiteru smiled. “Yacchan brought it with her when she drove over from the apartment. She’s out in the waiting room right now. So are Tobio and Shouyou. They all insisted on staying, even when the nurses said only two people were allowed in your room at a time.”

Kei squeezed his eyes shut. His headache was returning, and all he wanted was to go back to sleep, or maybe for Tadashi to wake up, but Kei knew when he owed a debt. 

“Send them in, please. Shouyou last.”

“Alright.” Akiteru stood, stretching, and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. Kei caught him by the sleeve. 

“Thanks. For, ah. I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Akiteru stuck his tongue out at him—really, where did people get the notion that _Kei_ was the troublesome brother—and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Kageyama was easy to deal with. He stood awkwardly by the side of Kei’s bed, hands shoved in his pockets, and told Kei very seriously to get better soon so he could return to playing volleyball as quickly as possible. Kei told _him_ that a one-night fever had never done anybody’s volleyball career any damage, and to stop scowling like that. Kageyama scowled harder, and flicked him. Kei, taking it as the sign of affection that it was, tolerated it.

Yachi was slightly less easy to deal with. She cried a bit when she saw him awake, which made Kei feel bad, but her anxiety was quickly overridden by concern and Kei soon found himself with an overabundance of blankets and his choice of five jello flavors. He chose strawberry, even though he couldn’t really taste it, on principle.

Hinata was . . . Hinata. He was loud and handsy and complained about the quality of light in the room before trying to open the blinds further, only succeeding in breaking them in the process. It was only the fevered memory of his pleading voice—“ _I’m so sorry, god, Tsukishima. . . please, please_ ”—that made Kei bite his tongue on a scornful comment.

“Hinata,” he gritted out eventually. “For the love of the gods and volleyball, would you just sit down?”

It was probably more the invocation of volleyball than the gods, but Hinata did for once comply with Kei’s wishes and sit down. 

Kei eyed him. Hinata looked irritatingly fresh-faced for someone who’d spent the night in a hospital lobby, but his hands were clenched together in his lap, blunt fingers gone white to the knuckle.

Kei reached over and pried his hands apart. “Stop that. You’re going to give yourself wrinkles by the time you’re thirty.”

Hinata looked down. All that tremendous energy had seeped away, leaving in its place a Hinata Kei had seen only rarely—somber, steel-eyed, frightening. 

“Tsukishima,” Hinata said, “if I hadn’t come in. If I hadn’t called the ambulance.”

“But you did.” Kei desperately wished for his glasses, if only to have a barrier between him and that gaze of Hinata’s that could lay a man bare. “We don’t worry about almosts or maybes on the court. This isn’t any different.”

Their eyes met and caught for a moment, two; Kei held his ground, trying to say _thank you_ and _I’m sorry_ without having to actually say anything at all.

Three years of learning to read each other on the court paid off. Kei saw the moment Hinata understood, because his eyes lit up and he grinned.

“Hinata,” Kei warned. He wasn’t sure he could handle any more of Hinata’s particular brand of intensity at the moment. If Hinata tried to jump on him, or proclaim their everlasting friendship—

“I’m not going to do anything,” Hinata protested. He darted forward and delivered a quick, hard hug before Kei could manage to duck him. “Bossyshima. I’m leaving now.”

He gave Kei an exaggerated wink and a nod in a still-sleeping Tadashi’s direction before flitting out the door with as much energy as he’d come. Kei sighed and turned onto his right side, trying to soothe his ever-increasing headache with a cool spot on the pillow. From this angle, he had a head-on view of Tadashi, his eyelashes fluttering like moth’s wings against dusky cheekbones spangled by a spray of freckles. 

Kei would never admit it to anyone but Tadashi (and even then only in whispers), but he was fairly certain he was dating the most beautiful man in all Japan. The most caring man in all Japan, who’d stayed in his boyfriend’s hospital room through the night, and on his anniversary no less. 

One of Tadashi’s hands was dangling over the arm of his chair, long fingers stained by ink from those colored pens he liked to take notes with. Kei stretched out his own hand, brushing his fingers against Tadashi’s palm. Even in his sleep Tadashi knew him, and turned his wrist so Kei could slide his fingers between Tadashi’s own. 

Kei clutched his gift tighter to his chest with his other hand. He’d wait for Tadashi to wake up, and give it to him then, along with the most heartfelt thanks he could manage. It wouldn’t be much, but Tadashi would appreciate it anyways, and Kei would love him for it. Tadashi might be the most beautiful, caring man in all Japan, but surely—surely, Kei was the luckiest. 

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

“Well, it has to be chocolate, of course. That’s _tradition_.”

“Tradition according to who?” Kei pushed his glasses further up his nose, annoyed. “My gods, you’re such a country bumpkin. _My_ family has always done strawberry shortcake.” 

“That’s because your family’s weird, Weirdshima.” Hinata stuck his tongue out at Kei, wobbling dangerously atop his perch on the stepladder where he was carefully stringing tinsel around their fake Christmas tree. He’d insisted on buying the largest one at the store, and Yachi’d had to cut the top three inches off with a pair of scissors just so it’d fit through the apartment door. 

“Excuse me, Hinata, my family is not—"

“ _No_ , Kageyama,” Hinata snapped for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening, and Kei closed his eyes in defeat. He wasn’t even doing much of the decorating—not that he got a chance to, with Hinata ordering everyone around—but he already wanted to be done. 

“It’s fine,” Kageyama snarled back, hands clenched into fists around two homemade volleyball-shaped cloth ornaments. They were Kageyama’s sole contribution to the tree. Kei, at least, had purchased a nice green-and-white icicle set.

“It’s not fine, Bakageyama, you can’t put two red ornaments next to each other, everyone knows that! My sister has a better grasp on this than you do!”

“Your sister,” Kageyama pointed at Hinata with one glitter-stained finger, “is an artist. You saw the card she sent for me my birthday, how am I supposed to measure up to that?”

Hinata’s mouth dropped open. “Kageyama, she’s ten! It’s not hard to be as good with colors as a ten year old.”

“I—"

“That’s enough.” Tadashi nailed the last sprig of mistletoe to the front doorframe slightly harder than necessary, cutting off the brewing argument. 

“Thank gods,” Kei murmured, half-heartedly searching for an outlet in which to plug in the lights Yachi was stringing up around the kitchen.

“Kageyama, put the ornaments where you want. Hinata, if it really bothers you that much, you can fix it later. And as for the cake—I’ll place an order at a bakery tomorrow.” He swung around and eyed Kei sternly, who threw up his hands in exasperation. Why was he the one getting the Captain Yamaguchi Death Stare? He’d barely been involved in the argument to begin with. 

“We’ll get whatever they still have available,” Tadashi continued. “It’s rather late to be asking for a specialty order.”

Yachi poked her head out of the kitchen, biting her lip. “We can still get KFC, though, right?”

Tadashi smiled at her. “Of course we can, Hitoka.”

“Hey, why are you only being nice to her? It’s Christmastime, Tadashi. You’re supposed to be nice to everyone.” Hinata planted his hands on his hips. Kei barely—barely—refrained from telling him that he looked like one of Santa’s elves in that American Christmas movie they’d watched the other day, complete with the short stature and handfuls of tinsel. “Where’s your Christmas spirit? This is _favoritism_.” 

“Favoritism?” Tadashi pointed at him with the hammer, looking indignant. “I’m treating Hitoka nicely because she’s not starting fights every other second—”

“I am not starting fights every other second! It’s Kageyama who’s—”

“Oi! Don’t bring me into this, dumbass! You’re the one—”

Kei sighed, and flipped the switch that brought Yachi’s lights into full, blooming color. The fight paused as all three looked up in wide-eyed appreciation. 

“Those are really nice,” Kageyama muttered after a moment. “I like them.”

Yachi blushed. “Thanks, Tobio.”

“Yeah, Hitoka, they’re beautiful. Now if only someone hadn’t dropped the box of decorations and _broken the matching set that was supposed to go on the tree_ —”

“I said that wasn’t my fault, you—you gremlin! Tadashi tripped me!”

“Hey now, that was an accident and you know it, Tobio—”

Kei let his head drop until it rested against the wall. Two days until Christmas. At this point, burning down the entire apartment was starting to look more and more appealing. He turned his neck slightly, catching a glimpse as Kageyama flung a handful of glitter in Hinata’s direction. 

Arson or not, Kei was certain no court would convict him.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

“Nose goes,” said Tadashi when the doorbell buzzed, and both him and Yachi got their fingers up just before Kei did. 

“Not fair,” he huffed, trying to balance his laptop with one hand and his mug of tea with the other. “I’m holding stuff.”

“Sore loser,” Tadashi teased, and Kei was careful to turn his head away from Yachi before sticking his tongue out at his boyfriend. But he got up from the couch anyway, because nose goes was long-standing tradition among the five of them, and also the last fraying thread holding the peace in the apartment together on some days.

Kei opened the front door to a stranger: a dark-haired, dark-eyed man with frown lines etched deeply into the corners of his mouth. Kei sighed, and started to shut the door in his face. “Whatever it is you’re selling, we don’t want it.”

“Wait.” The stranger caught the closing door with one hand, and Kei straightened to his full height, because he didn’t like the way the man was looking at him—cold and disdainful, as if Kei were worth less than the dirt on his shoes. It was a look Kei was accustomed to seeing in the mirror, not on another man’s face.

“Yes?” Kei said coolly. 

“I want to speak to my son.”

Kei shook his head. Tadashi’s parents were as familiar to him as his own, and Hinata’s father was still overseas. “You’ve got the wrong apartment.”

The stranger’s mouth twisted. “No, I don’t. I recognize you. You were one of my useless son’s teammates in his highschool volleyball club.”

“Ah.” Kei grinned without any sense of mirth. He let go of the door and crossed his arms, taking a step forward until he filled the doorway—all nearly 200 cm of him. “You’re Kageyama.” 

“Yes,” said the stranger, and now Kei wondered how he hadn’t seen the relation before: the set of Kageyama’s eyebrows was disconcertingly familiar.

“He’s not here,” Kei said shortly. 

“Then tell me when he’ll be back.”

“No,” Kei said, “I don’t think I will.” 

Strong emotion didn’t come easily to him, least of all anger, for anger required him to actually care about something enough to be angry over it, but he was furious enough for two now, clenching his teeth behind tightened lips. Tobio hadn’t talked much about his home life, and Kei hadn’t exactly pressed him for information, but what little he’d heard Kei didn’t like. And Kei was more than capable of filling the rest in for himself—Tobio’s single suitcase, the bruises in highschool that hadn’t been explained away by volleyball, the way he kept food squirreled away in his room as if afraid someone would try and take it from him. As far as Kei knew, Tobio hadn’t spoken to this man since moving out of his house, and Kei planned on keeping it that way. 

“Now listen here,” Kageyama snarled, pushing one broad finger into Kei’s chest. “He’s my son, and you can’t keep me from—”

“He is _not_ your son.”

Kei looked down. Yachi had come up behind him without him noticing and now stood at his side, eyes blazing in a pale face. 

“He is not your son,” she said again. “You lost the right to calling yourself his father after what you did to him. And he doesn’t want to see you, so go away and leave him alone.”

Kageyama bent down so his eyes were on a level with hers, lips pulling away from his teeth in a sneer. She trembled, but didn’t give an inch. He looked faintly surprised; Kei was not—he’d learned long ago that Yachi was as much a Crow as the rest of them, with equal propensity for fierce determination and unyielding will. 

“Little girl,” he said, and Kei resisted the urge to bring his knee up into Kageyama’s face. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Yachi shook her head, and said more firmly: “Go away.”

He laughed, unkindly. “Don’t make me teach you a lesson, bitch.”

And, _oh_ , Kei could not have that. He’d never actually hit another human being in his life, excepting more vigorous spats with Akiteru when he was younger, but the mechanics of it didn’t seem too difficult. Aim for the throat, the eyes, the bridge of the nose—the weak points. 

Another hand caught his and tugged his half-formed fist down to his side. Tadashi shouldered past Kei and Hitoka in the doorway, forcing Kageyama to take half a step back or be overrun. 

Kei often forgot just how tall Tadashi was, being even taller himself, but something about the way Tadashi was standing emphasized the long lines of Tadashi’s legs, the breadth of his chest. 

“That is _enough_.” And that was not his Captain Voice; or rather, it was the version of his Captain Voice that Kei had heard only once, ice-cold and terrible, warning a boy from the basketball club that he’d better get his hands off one of the volleyball club’s first-years if he didn’t want his teeth knocked out. 

And just like that basketball player all those months ago, Kageyama took a hasty three steps back, ending up against the wall opposite the apartment door. He visibly swallowed, trying to compose himself. His obvious discomfort gave Kei a mean sense of satisfaction, which was probably fucked up one way or another, but Kei had little sympathy for people who hit their children, and he’d never claimed to be a saint anyways. 

“You,” Tadashi said, sharp and deadly with it. “You will leave here. You will never attempt to contact Tobio again. And if you do—”

His back was to Kei, but Kei could see the expression on his face clear as day, burned into his memory by that unfortunate incident with the basketball club, compelling enough that Kei still shivered a little thinking about it. 

“—if you do, I’ll ensure you regret it.” 

From anyone else, those words would’ve been an empty threat. From Tadashi, they were a promise, and Kageyama knew it. He gathered the shreds of his dignity around himself and fled, not-quite-running until he disappeared down the staircase at the end of the hall. 

Tadashi sighed, and turned back around. The harsh lines of his face melted away, replaced by something bitter and sad. He reached out his hands and Kei took one, Hitoka the other. 

“You were very brave,” Hitoka told him solemnly. 

“Not really,” Tadashi said. “It was the right thing to do.” He looked, suddenly, exhausted. 

Kei tugged them both back into the apartment, careful to lock the door behind them. He fiddled with the doorknob for some moments before turning around to face the others. “Tobio . . . doesn’t have to know about this.” 

After all, Tobio was just stupid enough to go after his father in some kind of misguided attempt to reconnect, and that, Kei knew, could only ever end in pain. Tobio might’ve been emotionally stunted and still living out his teenage angst, but he was also far too forgiving. Tobio gave the people who hurt him chance after chance, and while sometimes it worked out in his favor (he and Oikawa Tooru had an . . . interesting relationship now that they were both in college), it was far more likely to crash and burn. 

“Definitely not,” Tadashi growled. “ _Fuck_ , I hate that man.” He slapped a hand against the wall and retreated back to the living room, still muttering darkly. Kei watched him go, planning to catch him alone later and hold him in the way he was sometimes still too shy to ask for. 

Hitoka touched his sleeve gently, staring at the front door, and Kei knew they were thinking the same thing: that Tobio had not had much of a home, growing up. That this dark, smelly, crowded little apartment in the heart of Tokyo was probably the first place he’d felt safe in a long time. 

Kei ran a finger along the doorframe. He’d talk to the super about installing a deadbolt tomorrow. 

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

It had been a bad day from the very beginning and Kei knew the instant he unlocked the door to their apartment that it was going to get worse. 

All four of his roommates were home, and he could hear them moving about in the kitchen: Hinata and Kageyama arguing about whether the soup they were making needed more salt, Yachi trying to mediate while tacitly suggesting that it did not, Tadashi rummaging around in the cupboards because no one in the apartment ever put the spices back in the same place. Standing in the small foyer, Kei couldn’t see them, but he didn’t need to in order to know where each of them would be situated, what expressions they would be making. By this point in the year, he could imagine this routine with his eyes closed—it was, after all, the same scene he’d come home to every Thursday since the start of term.

Were it any other Thursday, Kei could tolerate it. He might even endure the closeness and the clutter and the noise with grace. He might even like it. But today—

Kei set his bag down by the front door and peeled off his coat. He tried to hang it on the hook but misjudged, and it slipped off and hit the floor in a crumpled pile. 

Absurdly enough, that was Kei’s final straw, the shitty icing on a cake that had been inedible to begin with. He snatched off his shoe and flung it, as hard as he could, at the hook, and he knew it was petty and childish, but it felt good and he didn’t _care_. 

Of course, the shoe only hit the wall and rebounded, clipping him on the cheek on its way back. And now he was bruised and humiliated as well as upset, and to his shame Kei felt tears begin to gather in the corners of his eyes.

Sniffing, he knelt and fished the shoe out from where it had fallen, collecting his coat for good measure. This time, he was extra careful in placing it on the hook, and even stared at it for another moment to ensure it wouldn’t slip off. When it didn’t, he exhaled and knelt to take off his other shoe. 

The others had already exchanged their street shoes for house slippers, and as he moved to do the same, Kei was confronted with the four pairs of shoes laid neatly on the rack. There was Hinata’s red converse, doodled on with sharpie; the same sturdy pair of running shoes Kageyama’d had since highschool; Tadashi’s well-worn Doc Martens; a delicate pair of Yachi’s flats, pink and paper-thin. 

And at the very right edge of the rack was a conspicuously empty space.

Kei put his shoes up on the rack in that empty spot, and remembered: he was not in this alone. There was a space for him here—on the rack, yes, but also in the hearts of four people who’d seen him at his worst and chosen to live with him anyways. 

Kei would go into that kitchen upset, and Hitoka would ask him if he wanted to talk about it. He’d say no and she’d nod, but she’d also let her fingers linger on his arm a bit longer than usual. Shouyou would pester him for extra practice that weekend, and Kei would grumble but give in. Tobio wouldn’t say anything but he’d sit a little closer to Kei around the kitchen table. And after the lights were out and Kei was in bed, Tadashi would wrap himself around Kei’s back and tell him he was loved. 

The trembling in Kei’s fingers slowed and then stopped. It was an altogether average life he led, surrounded by companions that were anything but, and Kei was grateful. He knew he had been granted so much more than he deserved.

Kei stood. He put on his house slippers. He spared one last glance for the shoe rack, and then he turned toward the kitchen and went home.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> the present Kei gets for Tadashi for their two year anniversary is a star chart of the day they met. Tadashi cries.


End file.
